Autumn is coming

The mother-in-law has gone home. The obvious relief is still being abruptly shattered from time to time by the shuddering thought that I've gone deaf. Then I suddenly realise that she has gone home. It turns out to be a strange mixture of shock and relief on numerous levels.

The wood has been delivered for winter. The strange little man, as strong as an Ox, came trundling down from the mountain in his cranky old lorry. He spoke at us in a dialect even the locals don't understand. As usual he was fascinated by HRH and the royal family. Why would we, the British, still entertain such a strange system?